Breathe Me
by weaselsdontfly
Summary: Short stories from each of the characters' points of view. Some slash.
1. Help, I Have Done It Again

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize belongs to me.

Authors Note: The chapters are named from the lyrics of Breathe Me by Sia. I tried to get a chapter in from most of the characters' points of view. They aren't in any real order, it tends to jump from mid-service, to a scene from the movie, to way before the movie even began. I definitely appreciate feedback. I usually forget to make characters have their own personalities, I figured this would be a good way to force myself to do just that. There is some slash spread through here, so if that offends you please don't read this story. Thanks!

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**Help, I Have Done it Again**

_Lancelot's POV_

I loved you.

Silly how these things occur to us with the worst possible timing. A sparring match, in this case. It had started out in easy camaraderie... well, no. It had really started with hero worship. In fact, it had always been hero worship cleverly diguised behind a supposedly easy camaraderie. Maybe it was easy for you. Nothing in this life seemed to have come easily to me.

In any case, we had been sparring. Jests had flown between us as quickly as our blades, followed by panting taunts about one another's lineage, followed by glares and grunts.

My eyes had been drawn to a trickle of sweat slipping down your brow, trailing down your cheek, only to pause at your mouth. You were biting on your lower lip in concentration. A distracting enough dilemma, I had forced myself to look at your eyes, to keep from fantasizing about the rest of you.

Your eyes turned out to be my downfall. Intense green pierced through me, your concentration on proving yourself to your first knight. My blade was knocked from my hands, though I barely noticed. You captured and tamed me with that intense gaze.

"Do you surrender?"

"Yes."


	2. I Have Been Here Many Times Before

**I Have Been Here Many Times Before**

_Dagonet's POV_

I had taken care of him since we had first met on that long journey to Britain. He had been a rotund boy, blond hair flopping in his eyes, smudges of dirt seemingly magnetically attracted to him. We were the same age, he and I, though he tended to act much younger, fitting in better with the younger boys then I ever would.

It only seemed fitting that I should be the one who took care of him afterwards. When he did grow angry no one else braved the storm. Perhaps it was just that I was the only one of a size to compare to him.

I stood by, more then slightly amused, the first time he grew drunk. I watched him tell the dirtiest jokes he knew, watched him grope at passing women though he was still so young, smiled indulgently as he drank himself into a stupor. It was the first time I had to half carry, half drag him to the barracks. It was hardly the last.

Each morning he would clutch his head and swear that he would never ever drink again. Each night he was back at the tavern, spending what little wages we received on more alcohol.

I couldn't blame him for drinking like he did. We had shared a room for the majority of our service to Rome, I knew what type of dreams he had. The killing would never disappear after the battle was won. That man, that bull of a man, returned to the whimpering child he was after our first battle. Scared, bloodied with both his and other blood, wishing to all the Gods imaginable that he was back at home in his family's drafty hut.

Some things never leave you.

Some nights he would whisper the names of those we had lost, usually his childhood friend from his village. Bedivere had fallen to the Woads so long ago, our third battle to be exact. An inexperienced lad who longed to return to Sarmatia and farm. He had been captured by the rebels. We had found him tortured, half-dead, staring emptily at the sky. Though we had healed him, he had gone insane, eventually taking his own life. Bedivere haunted every knight's dreams from time to time, but none so much as Bors.

When he was unconscious he dreamed of nothing. His fingers stopped twitching, his breathing was heavier.

Bors, being who he was, had gotten drunk again. Vanora, exasperated with him as always, had locked him out of their small hut. It had fallen on me once again to drag Bors back to the barracks, to the room he had once shared with me.

He had an arm slung over my shoulder, causing him to walk lopsidedly down the road as he was much shorter then I.

"Dag..." I was concentrating more on keeping my footing then on his drunken ramblings. "Dag, you know I love you, dont'cha?"

"I know, Bors."


	3. Hurt Myself Again Today

**Hurt Myself Again Today**

_Tristan's POV_

It was always a wonder to the others how a knight such as I came across so many scars. I had always been a step faster in battles, I always came out with the least cuts. And yet, when I would occasionally take off my shirt on a particularly sweltering day, they found me to be covered in scars, the same as the rest of them.

When? How?

Silent questions. None dared ask me.

I sometimes wished they would ask, that they'd be as blunt with me as they were with one another. But I was never one of them, I would always be an outsider. I did not join them in their easy sparring matches, their drinking, their bets.

I was of the Scythian Alanis, known throughout history for their wars. In the early days there were whispers that I would someday rebel against Rome's rule myself, that I'd kill those who had befriended me in their sleep.

Perhaps I should have.

As it was, I became their scout. I rode alone through Woad-infested forests. I was shot at and fought and nearly died so many times when I was alone in those woods.

I suppose it was my own way of punishing myself for being the hated outsider. My fear and anger bled out of me with each new wound. Those fights kept me from rebelling, they kept me alive. They made me human in the eyes of my fellow knights who tried so hard to turn me into something untouchable, and that was why I hid my scars so often. My fellow knights needed something untouchable, unchangeable in their lives when everything else had become tainted by death.


	4. No One Else to Blame

**And The Worst Part Is There's No-one Else to Blame**

_Guinevere's POV_

I fell in love with him.

He was brave, dashing, the perfect knight...or so I told myself. Lancelot, the handsome dark knight. He had stared at me from afar through that journey from Marius' estate, barely a step ahead of the Saxons, and my hopes were buoyed.

It wasn't until much, much later that I realized that he had never been interested in me. It was Arthur he had eyes for, and Arthur only had eyes for me. I was an enigma to him, never attractive in any manner. He had studied me in the hopes of finding what exactly it was that had stolen Arthur's attention.

It wasn't until he had told me the truth, that he would have left me and the boy, Lucan, in that dungeon to die, that I realized that Lancelot was not as the stories made him out to be.

Luckily, Arthur did not disappoint.

Even then...

Gods, I did love Lancelot. As foolish as it was, I could not keep from longing after him.

When he saved me in that last battle I was convinced that he loved me as well. I was so completely sure that he was risking his life for me.

It was never for me, I realized much later.

That stupid, foolish, unattainable man.

He had saved me for Arthur.


	5. Be My Friend

**Be My Friend**

_Arthur's POV_

I remembered feeling helpless once they turned their angry glares on me. I had never commanded a group of warriors before.

To be honest, I hadn't expected this group of unbathed, bitter boys. I myself had just turned eighteen at the time, some of the boys were older then me. The youngest was only fourteen.

One of them had stood out. His dark hair flopped into his eyes as he stared sullenly at me like the rest. He was already sporting a black eye and split lip. I think I knew then that he would cause me the most trouble.

The boys had ignored me for the longest time, responding to the commands I was forced to give them but never to any friendliness I tried to display. It was one of the most crushing experiences of my life. I had such great hopes for my band of Sarmatian warriors. I would show them that I accepted them as equals, I would become their friend, not just their commander. All these hopes were crushed by each frustrated glare sent my way. How could I have ever hoped to gain their trust? My people had dragged them from their homes and families, they would never accept that I felt only good will towards them.

It wasn't until one night where everything seemed to be going against me, that I crept away from the campfire while the others were talking. I knelt in the forest, rocks jabbing into my knees, and prayed to God that they would see that I only wanted the best for them.

My prayer was interrupted abruptly by a slightly amused voice. "What in the world are you doing?"

I had spun around, recognizing the young troublemaker kneeling beside me.

"Lancelot, isn't it?"

"Don't change the subject." He grinned, his lip splitting open again. He rolled his eyes, rubbing the blood away with the back of his hand. "What are we looking for down here?" He glanced around the ground, trying to find what had caught my attention.

"I was praying."

"Praying." He wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

"I wanted...I wanted God to know that I wanted you knights to accept me."

"Why would God care?" He tilted his head in honest confusion. "You should tell us, not God." He got to his feet at that, holding down a hand to help me up. "Come on. Bors is telling the dirtiest jokes I've ever heard." He led me back to the camp, talking on. "Did you know Agravaine has a wife? Its true. He's seventeen, you know. Its 'cause he was going to be the chief of his tribe. They wanted him to 'spread his seed'. Can you imagine that? I wish I were the son of a chief, then I could bed women without getting in trouble."

I couldn't help but smile as he sat me down by the fire, effortlessly drawing me into the conversation.

Within weeks he had become my second in command.


	6. Hold Me, Wrap Me Up

**Hold Me, Wrap Me Up**

_Galahad's POV_

I felt like screaming at you, like ripping you to shreds. How dare you volunteer me for another suicide mission? How dare you assume that I'd follow Arthur once again?

I didn't want to die, Gawain.

I didn't want to lose my last chance at freedom when it was so close. You jerked that opportunity out of reach right before I could even think to grasp at it and run.

I could kill you for that, Gawain. I could kill you.

I had punched you as soon as we were out of sight of Arthur and the others. You deserved it, don't even try to deny it.

I had always hated how you would let me take out my anger on you. You were a great unmovable rock in the face of my fury. Didn't you know that I hated myself a little more with each blow I landed? You didn't deserve my anger for showing me what I needed to do, not that I'd ever admit that to you.

Its not that I didn't want to die, to be honest. I hated my life, I hated that Sarmatia was a distant dream that would only disappoint me when I returned. I knew it wasn't the paradise I was making it out to be. I wanted to die each day, I wanted to ride out with Tristan on one of his scouting missions and get shot at and not bother to dodge for once.

I just didn't want to die without you. What kind of afterlife would it be without you? These aren't the things we spoke of when we were alone. We spoke of perfect Sarmatian wives, of babies, of roaming about those rolling Sarmatian hills for days on end, enjoying being alive in a place where the rain ceased once in a while.

I never told you, did I?

The gods know that I tried. I suppose your friendship meant more to me then that. Why ruin a good thing with a word like 'love'? You wanted a Sarmatian wife. I would find my own wife when we returned. And we would return, wouldn't we? Damn it all, I would give my own life for you to return and be happy in your homeland. You deserved it, Gawain. You deserved it so much more then I did.

That night, when we returned to our shared room at the barracks, you let me yell at you and throw punches until I finally broke down, a sobbing heap on the floor, whispering over and over that I had something to live for. You knelt beside me, wrapping me up in your arms as I gave up trying to hold it in.

I was young when we first were taken from Sarmatia. Only twelve years old. None of our commanders before Arthur or even the other knights thought I would survive so long. You were the only one who took the time to show me how to survive. You taught me swordplay and convinced Tristan to teach me how to fire an arrow. You trained me to sleep lightly and showed me how to fight on horseback.

You saved me, Gawain. I owe you my life. Is it any wonder that my hero worship progressed to something more?

The gods knew I hated myself when I realized the truth. Loving a brother knight was something that could get you killed, if not by the Romans or even the other knights, then in battle. You can't look after someone else in battle, you need to keep yourself alive first and foremost. That didn't stop me from shooting those who dared sneak up on you as you fought, even though the distraction caused most of my injuries over those fifteen years of service.

You cradled me in your arms even after I stopped crying. You held me through most of the night.

"What is it you have to live for?" You asked at one point.

I refused to tell you.

You. I lived for you, Gawain.


	7. Unfold Me

A/N: Thanks for the reviews!

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**Unfold Me**

_Gawain's POV_

We were a pair, you and I. You were impuslive, I was centered. You were dark, I was light. You were passionate, I was contained. Short hair, long hair. Brown eyes, blue eyes. The list goes on.

You were someone for me to take care of when we first left Sarmatia. You distracted me from my own self-pity and sorrow. I taught you how to fight because it distracted me from what exactly it was that we were being trained to fight. I taught you the things that you hadn't had time to learn at your village because it kept me from thinking about how much my own family had left to teach me.

I remember when we first collected you from your village. There had been some discrimination among the others. You were, after all, a Venedae. All the tribes saw the Venedae as being inferior, seeing as how they had become part of Sarmatia long after the rest of our tribes.

"Well at least he isn't Fenni." I had finally said. The Fenni were an embarrassment to Sarmatian culture and we all knew it. They were worse then all the others, no matter how late your tribe had come along. What did it matter anyway? We were all in it together, we all had to watch each others' backs.

You were practically attached to my hip after that. I complained about you a good deal in those early days, but believe me, Galahad, I never meant a word of it. You were my friend from the very beginning.

It was like finding the other half of me.

It wasn't until later that I began to care for you more then just as a friend. You really had become the other half of me, I suppose.

I never meant...Gods, Galahad, I never meant for it to happen. I was so sure you saw me as an older brother, someone who took care of you when you needed it and pestered you incessantly the rest of the time. I knew you trusted me.

When you cried from time to time (I'm sorry, I know you swore me to secrecy), I wanted to hold you close, keep you safe from our horrific life, create a haven for you in my arms. I ruined everything. I could never be your friend if you knew the truth. I loved you. I will always love you, Galahad. Gods, but its ridiculous. I was supposed to protect you, not fall head over heels for you. I've always been an idiot when it came to you.

I would hold you in my arms until you were alright again. You would usually leave for the tavern or fall asleep almost immediately afterwards. I was left sitting on my own bunk, wrapping my arms around my knees, cradling myself, and wishing to all the Gods I could think of that you would wake up again and unfold me and my secrets.


	8. I Am Small And Needy

**I am small and needy**

_Bors' POV_

I'll be the first to admit that I didn't deserve my Vanora. She was the best thing in my pathetic excuse for a life, though it took her damn well long enough to get there.

Now, I had been flirting with her for weeks and she had yet to take me up on any of my offers. She'd just 'tsk' at me (something she hasn't ever stopped doing since then, I might add). It did help that she 'tsked' at Lancelot, too. The bastard. He turned the whole damn thing into a race when she was the first woman I could have at least tried to wait for.

Of course, my desperate flirting, trying to catch up to him, you see?, only made her angrier. I got a good deal of my drinks tipped over my head in those weeks. Luckily, so did Lancelot. ...And several of the other knights, come to think of it. When Vanora got angry...I still shudder to think of it.

Well we had gone out on another of Arthur's damned missions to clear out the Woads from some village or another. They all looked the same. The villages that is, though the Woads began to blur together after some years, too. Anyway, the Woads had started getting smarter at that point, though I suppose even animals will recognize patterns after a few years. What they did was set a trap and we rode straight into it like the blind idiots we were.

We rode through the gate, all prepared for some grovelling villagers, but all we got was the gate closing behind us and swarms upon swarms of the blue bastards coming out of every building.

We lost good men in that battle.

In the end, Dagonet risked his life to save us all, a bad habit of his. He lowered his guard, running over to the gate and starting the slow process of pushing it open for us. That gate nearly rivaled the one at Badon Hill and there was our own personal giant pushing it aside for us.

That man could move a mountain if he set his mind to it.

We were all bloodied by the end of that battle. Arthur had several deep slashes down his back, could've severed his spine if those blows were just a bit to the right. Dagonet had been slashed right down his face, nearly lost his eye. And there was I with my head cut right open. That right there was the worst injury I'd ever had. Blood was pouring out all over the damn place, getting in my eyes and nearly blinding me as we rode away, and each step of my stallions hooves notched up the worst headache of my life. Not even the morning after a night of steady drinking could compare to that headache.

Well we got back to the fort, all of us bleeding all over the place and unable to stop thinking of our brothers who had been left behind, what would happen to their bodies. There weren't enough healers in the fort to take care of us all at once, and that's how Vanora found me. Clutching some fabric to my head to stop the bleeding and waiting for my turn with the healer.

I've never seen her so pale before in my life, except for maybe that one time when Three had wandered out of the fort and wasn't back by nightfall.

Vanora led me away from the healers, brought me straight to her room behind the tavern and fixed me up, the whole time muttering about how much of an irresponsible, stupid pig I was. She let me stay there that night, and all the next day. She even told Arthur where I was to keep me from leaving that room.

When I left for the funeral of those we had lost she came with. Waited till I was ready to go and brought me straight back to her room and held me long through that night.

That was one of the few times Vanora didn't yell at me or mutter obscenities or anything else. Just held me as I remembered how mortal I was. When I tried to apologize she just shook her head. Just wrapped her arms tighter around me and sang softly to me.

That Vanora...she was the only person who could take away my burdens and let me feel small again.


	9. Warm Me Up

A/N: Sorry its been so long. Life, school, and some serious writer's block caught up to me. I'm not too fond of how this chapter turned out. I discovered that writing from a tortured young boy's point of view was much harder then the other problems I've run into with this story (like writing Bors. That man is IMPOSSIBLE.) I like to think I can handle the insane amount of angst, but writing angst in a kid's voice? That's hard, man. Anyway, I'd appreciate some constructive criticism on this one.

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**Warm me up**

_Lucan's POV_

I had been with my mother when the men came.

She had called a "fluff day", a day where we stopped working and had a day of fun.

It was the last day of fun I had for a long time.

We had gone running through the forest and digging for bugs and were finally lying in the field just looking at the clouds.

"There's a rabbit." She had said suddenly, pointing up at one cloud.

"A cat." I pointed at another. She smiled, taking my hand in hers. We spent hours like that, watching the sky turn dark and the clouds disappear, cats morphing into dogs who morphed into swirling beasts that breathed fire. There's magic in clouds, my mother told me.

We had returned to our hut after dark, whispering and giggling and dashing around in the dark trying not to be seen by the guards. It was no use in the end. The guards were waiting at our door.

They put my mother in chains, strung her up and whipped her right before my eyes, holding me back all the while.

They yelled at my mother and called her a witch. They said they had seen the inside of our hut and saw the "tools of her trade". My mind raced. The only thing in our hut was our bedrolls, some clothes, and mother's herbs. She strung them from the rafters, and made mixtures for the other villagers when they got sick. Sometimes she'd let me help, and we'd put them in her big pot and boil them. Other times she let me ground up the leaves.

Was my mother a witch? My mother couldn't be a witch. I would _know_ if she was a witch. Wouldn't I?

They tied my mother up the next day with big piles of wood and set fire to her. They made me watch.

My mother twisted and turned and screamed and cried. I couldn't stand to watch her skin blacken, her soul leave her, and so I looked up.

The smoke coming from my mother had become a cloud, drifting farther and farther away into the sky.

If my mother was a witch, she was the most beautiful magic I ever saw.

They took me away after she had long since stopped writhing and crying, and led me down to a dark place and chained me up. I was supposed to tell them why she had cursed our Lord Marius.

I didn't know she had.

They took my arm and twisted it until I was screaming and they twisted it still until I heard something crack even through my cries for help. Everything went black, but when I could see again, I was surrounded by stone with a grate over my head.

I was scared and tired and cold and hungry, and every day they dragged me up to hit me or twist my arm even farther. I didn't know what they wanted me to know. I screamed and cried and sometimes I heard someone else screaming and crying.

One day I heard thumping and crashes and angry voices. The grate above me was suddenly lifted and I was lifted out before I could even think to bite them or scratch at them like I usually would. I was set on the stone ledge and faced a giant, a real live giant. All I could think of was the warm touch of his hands as he had lifted me into the light, so different from the cold skin of the other men who would hurt me. And so I believed him when he said solemnly,

"You must not fear me."


	10. And Breathe Me

A/N: I always thought that the knights wouldn't be the most popular people at the fort. More like an interesting oddity then actually popular, what with it being a Roman fort and all. Also, for the record, I like Lancelot's character in the movie. He's all broody and fun to write...but he also struck me as the type who would totally use bad pickup lines when he was in a good mood. So you're just going to have to suffer through the one bad line I stuck in there.

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**And Breathe Me**

_Vanora's POV_

I was a fool for that man.

I had only been visiting the fort to help my dear uncle run his tavern for a month or so. My uncle declared me a fiery girl with a heart of hard steel, able to survive the drunks and the womanizers. I laughed and served the men their drinks and learned to sidestep the Romans. The men just could not keep their hands to themselves, though they learned quickly enough when I would hold a dagger to their throat.

I was not a woman to be trifled with.

Damn it all, I'm still not a woman to be trifled with. Woe be to those who would dare think I'd lose my touch all these years later.

I heard rumors of the Sarmatian knights for the entire week before they returned.

"Pagan savages."

"Cannibals, I heard."

"Rapists, every one of them."

I laughed away the rumors, but I was secretly terrified of their return. Now if you tell old Bors that, I'll have your head on a platter. The man's already full of himself.

The prostitutes who flaunted themselves at the tavern told a different story.

"Hardly rapists, dear. Hardly."

"Now girl, they may be just a step above animals, but they ain't _evil_."

The prostitutes assurances didn't do much to ease my nerves, though I don't suspect that was their intention. As kindly as they could be from time to time, they would do their best to protect their business. If that meant keeping their men single or repeating what they heard from the Romans stationed at the fort, they were more then willing to do it.

I was quite the bundle of nerves when the knights returned. They claimed a table in the corner, laughing loudly and placing bets.

"I heard there's a new barmaid." One of them mentioned nonchalantly. I listened closely from my spot at the bar, hoping to gain insight on these terrible heathens from the east lands. A handsome man with dark curls smirked, glancing in my direction. I pretended not to notice.

"Lancelot will bed her within a week, won't he, Bors?" A younger man laughed, nudging the large bald man beside him. When I didn't hear an answer I glanced over, seeing the bald man gaping over at me. "Bors?" The young one raised an eyebrow.

"I think Bors has designs on your wench, Lancelot." One with long blonde hair grinned. Lancelot snorted.

"Good luck to him."

I knew right then that I hated them all. Self-assured bastards, how dare _any_ of them put designs on me?

Eventually they signalled for ale and I stepped over, setting down their mugs. Within seconds, I was being pulled in Lancelot's lap.

"What say you to a tour of the fort?" He smiled, wrapping an arm around my stomach. "We can start at my rooms-"

It was the worst pickup line I have ever heard to this day. I did not refrain from shutting him up by dumping his ale over his head. I slipped out of his shocked arms and slapped him hard.

"Don't even think I'll be a notch on your bloody bedpost, you pig!"

Time flew, I got scolded quite a bit by my uncle for all the ale I was throwing in people's faces, but I found myself not caring. It was the most fun I'd had in quite a bit.

The idea of hating them all disappeared slowly. I'd sneak Tristan some meat for his hawk, bring Arthur a meal when he was too busy pouring over his paperwork, and Dagonet...well, Dagonet was always impossible to hate.

When I walked in on Galahad crying in the stables my ideas of cannabalistic heathen savages from the east were completely blown away.

It was supposed to be my last day at the fort when the knights rode back from their most recent mission, almost all of them bleeding profusely. My heart clenched when I saw Bors with blood smeared all over his face. When I found him waiting outside the healers with a dirty cloth clutched to his head, I took him home with me and took care of him myself.

And that was that.

I never did go back to my family like I was supposed to. I had a traveler tell them of where I was. They never sent a message back.

The first time I was pregnant...Gods, I was so scared. All alone in the fort without my mother or sisters or even aunts, no one to help me through childbirth.

Bors and I broke tradition, as we had a tendency to do, by forcing the midwife to let him stay with me when I went into labor. I admit, I broke one of his fingers squeezing his hand, not to mention that I scared the life out of him with all my swearing and promises of certain death.

Looking back, all I remember was being pregnant and nursing. The only break in it all was after Seven was born.

I had been at the tavern. I was pregnant again but that never did stop me from working straight up to the day I would start going into labor. One of the Romans had sneered at me, calling me the Sarmatians' whore and I'd walloped him across the back of his head. He had swung at me, knocking me to the ground and kicking me right in the stomach.

The knights were all over him at that point. I just lay on the floor in a heap, staring at the ground as they threw punches and yelled curses. I was going into labor. It was only fall, I should've been having the baby during the winter.

By the time Bors broke through to me and carried me to the midwife I was already sobbing uncontrollably.

He held me all through the labor, and for once I couldn't gather the energy to scream at him as I usually did.

The child, my perfect baby... when they laid her in my arms she was already dead.

I spent all that night wrapped in Bors' arms, staring at the weaving in his shirt, listening to his deep breathing and wishing I could press myself further into him where it was safe.

The knights sometimes joke about how Bors can't count, what with our children jumping from Six to Eight. Bors just wraps me up in his arms and I listen to him breathe.


	11. Ouch, I Have Lost Myself Again

A/N: Warning: Some serious sexual tension between two of the knights. I enjoyed writing this way too much.

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**Ouch, I have lost myself again**

_Galahad's POV_

It was always a mistake to spar with Gawain. He was too damn distracting.

The man was all jokes and grins and teasing winks and smirks. It was impossible to fight with him.

I knew I was starting to pout and that only served to make me angrier, because, damn it all, I am _not_ a child anymore. I was swinging harder and faster and thinking of how furious I was with Gawain for making me love him. I wasn't _supposed_ to love him. I wasn't supposed to love anyone. Love got you in trouble. Love was dangerous. Love made you stupid. Loving a fellow knight was even more dangerous and much stupider. I swung at him without checking the blow as I usually would, and Gawain finally stopped joking and blocked me.

Before I knew it he was swinging furiously back at me, swinging his sword faster and harder and I remembered why seeing him on the battlefield made me feel relieved to know he was on our side.

I was distracted from my contemplation when his sword cut into my thigh. I looked at my bleeding leg, at Gawain's shocked face and yelled,

"Ow!"

"Gal-"

"Gods be damned, Gawain!"

"Sorry-"

"Was that necessary?!"

"I'm _sorry,_ you stupid oaf. Hold still, damn it!"

He was suddenly kneeling at my side, peeling my hands away from my wound and inspecting it closely. He was uncomfortably close.

"Come on, let's get you to the healer."

He slung my arm over his shoulder, half carrying me, half letting me limp like an idiot, as he brought me to the healer's rooms. The healer wasn't in. How bloody convenient.

"Let's sit you down, now." His voice was soothing, I actually found myself calming down until I realized it was the same voice he used with skittish horses. My glare was lost on him as he turned to grab bandages.

"Does it need stitches?" He asked, more to himself then to me.

"How in the hells would I know?"

He ignored me, instead poking and prodding at the ripped flesh. I rolled my eyes. Anger was completely lost on the man after a certain point.

"Here, hold up your skirt for a second, I need to wrap it."

I started pulling up the fabric before what he said sunk in. My eyes narrowed.

"Its a _kilt_."

"What?"

"Its a kilt, you insensitive bastard." I was furious now. It was a tradition of my tribe to wear these kilts. It was clearly not a tradition of the other tribes, seeing as how it had been the subject matter of the majority of jokes aimed at me over the years. I could've killed Gawain right then and there. He _knew_ how sore of a subject that was.

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not!"

"I damn well bloody am, Galahad! Now stop arguing with me and let me wrap your leg!"

I sighed heavily. Alright, overdramatically.

I froze as his fingers brushed my thigh.

Just wrapping it, I told myself, he's just wrapping it. When he's done you can run like hell and hide that growing problem of yours.

I stared steadfastly at my right foot, thinking of cold plunges into lakes. So. Bloody. Awkward.

"Alright, done." He grinned up at me, giving my thigh a friendly pat.

I bolted.

It wasn't until later, when I was curled up in the hay in the stables, that I allowed myself to cry. He couldn't know. He couldn't ever know.

I would never tell him.

I curled up in the hay, biting into my fist to keep from screaming. I couldn't do it anymore. It was too much emotion to contain. I raked angry fingernails down my arms as I screamed silently into the hay.


	12. Lost myself and I Am Nowhere to be Found

A/N: WARNING: Involves m/m rape. I don't go into detail, but if this offends you/disturbs you, then by all means, don't read it.

My explanation for being so mean to Tristan is at the bottom.

* * *

**Lost Myself And I Am Nowhere To Be Found**

_Tristan's POV_

I was young when it happened. My tribe had taught me how to scout, how to be one with the forest. I was better then the others when we were taken, but I was not yet a master. That could only come with time.

Arthur had me scouting ahead. I was supposed to find a rumored encampment of Saxons, estimate their numbers, and report back.

They were easy to find. Saxons are hardly a subtle race. I could hear them laughing and fighting amongst themselves a mile away. I had climbed a tree, peering out over their camp and counting tents, when one of them looked up.

Perhaps it was lucky timing on his part. Perhaps I was not as good of a scout as I had thought.

I was pulled out of the tree before I could blink and dragged into their camp. I struggled, yes, but I did not yell for help. That wasn't my way even then.

I was interrogated in the normal Saxon way. Jabbed with rusty daggers, burned, hit...

I didn't care about pain.

Their leader, Cerdic, realized that soon enough.

I was dragged to his tent, wrists tied behind my back.

He ran his eyes down my body. I knew already what was going to happen.

My face was shoved to the floor, each thrust into me caused me to inhale more dirt.

My fingernails dug bloody crescents into my palms.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to tear away flesh.

My entire world shattered into jagged pieces behind my closed eyes.

I suppose I should have felt a flicker of hope when I heard the screaming of dying Saxons and Bors' battle cry, but it was too late. I cared not about the injuries to my body, but Cerdic had taken my pride. My pride was the only thing I had been able to keep from the Romans, and instead I lost it to a filthy Saxon.

He stood, lacing up his trousers calmly. He would escape into the night with his remaining men, and we both knew it. He glanced out into the night and gave me a nod. We would meet again.

He left me bound and naked for my brother knights to find.

Of all the people who could've found me, of all the people I would rather it had been, Bors walked in on me first. I had enough time to cringe, bracing myself for what he would say. Instead, he took one look at me and had me untied and dressed before the other men caught up, all without a word.

As the other men swarmed in, asking what had happened to me, Bors stood at the back of them all quietly. I shrugged them off, and heard them whispering about Saxon torture techniques as I left.

When we made camp that night, I snuck off to a nearby lake, plunging myself in. It was freezing. I stayed in far longer then I should have, scrubbing at my skin. I couldn't get rid of the feeling of him touching me, even as I scraped my skin with sand and pebbles.

I stood in that lake for hours, staring at my waving reflection. I jumped when Bors laid a hand on my shoulder. I hadn't even heard him splashing through the lake to get to me. He led me back to the beach, wrapped me in one of his spare cloaks, and led me back to camp where he forced me to eat, all without a word.

When we got back to the fort, he was back to his usual self. Obnoxiously loud, telling jokes, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow and waggling his eyebrows as he laughed about Galahad's kilt.

Though I had originally wished for someone like Dagonet to find me, it was a relief for it to be Bors. It was impossible to tell if he had truly forgotten what had happened (wouldn't be surprising with all the head injuries he sustained at Vanora's hands), or if he was just that good at covering his reaction.

I rode into the forest one night, Arthur had finally deemed me ready for scouting again. I was supposed to investigate a village that was supposedly being terrorized by Woads, instead I found myself sitting at a pond, looking at my reflection.

I didn't recognize the man staring back at me.

I didn't want to.

* * *

A/N: I swear, I really do like Tristan. He's just so easy to inflict pain on, what with being so broody and insane. This chapter actually came to being because I was thinking about the Tristan and Cerdic ending in the movie. I personally thought that Tristan would have known Arthur wanted to kill Cerdic himself, so why would Tristan attack him? ...And this would be my reason why.

Also, I think Bors isn't as much of an idiot as he makes himself out to be.


	13. Yeah, I Think That I Might Break

**Yeah, I Think That I Might Break**

_Lancelot's POV_

I knew from the moment you carried that damn Woad out of the dungeon that any slim chance I had was gone. The way you stared down at her, another damsel in distress no matter how much she may claim otherwise. The way she stared up at you with the amazed hero worship that you so clearly craved, no matter how much you may claim otherwise.

My hero worship had fallen to the side as our fifteen years together passed by, replaced by something deeper, something that would last far longer.

I saw it then, just as I saw the way she looked at me. You were her hero, Arthur. More importantly, you were the bond she had to forge to help her people. I was no hero. I was no future king. I was just another bodily pleasure.

She was a beautiful woman, Arthur, enough to tempt the strongest of wills, but I had long since discovered that all the women in the world couldn't satisfy my craving.

I hated her for snatching you away from me.

Believe me when I tell you that for a moment I hated you even more when you told us,

"Knights, my journey with you must end here. May God go with you."

Low blow, Arthur. Low blow. May God go with me? With _me_? I nearly hit you then, but it took only one glance at Guenivere's smug face to keep my fists clenched at my sides so I could stalk after you instead.

You wouldn't believe how much I hate it when you ignore me. There I was, running after you, yelling at you, and you wouldn't even bloody look at me?

"Only certain death awaits you here. Arthur, I beg you! For our friendship's sake, I beg you!"

Can you even comprehend how much that took out of me, Arthur? Could you see my heart breaking as I begged?

"Be my friend now and do not dissuade me. Seize the freedom you have earned and live it for the both of us. I cannot follow you, Lancelot. I now know that all the blood I have shed, all the lives I have taken have led me to this moment."

I couldn't tell if I wished to hit you or kiss you at that moment.

You stupid, self-righteous bastard.

I _loved_ you, and I had set all that aside for our friendship. And what do I find in the end? Some ridiculous, petty, romantic dream of yours takes precedence over fifteen years of my suffering beyond what I ever thought possible.

I should've just kissed you all those years ago. I would have gotten whipped for disrespecting my commander and sent off to a different fort with a different self-righteous Roman with different suicidal plans that I could hate like I was supposed to.

* * *

A/N: I seem to be very fond of author's notes lately. I really do like Guinevere, specifically for the Arthur ordeal. She married a man that she probably didn't love to unite their nations, and I respect her character for that. With that out of the way, I'd imagine that Lancelot, being moody and feeling rejected, was probably not too fond of her at that particular moment which is why she's portrayed negatively in this chapter. 


	14. Lost Myself Again And I Feel Unsafe

**Lost Myself Again And I Feel Unsafe**

_Gawain's POV_

I was sparring with Tristan. I knew even before entering the fight that Tristan would win. Tristan would need to have the flu, one hand tied behind his back, and a rabid dog gnawing on his neck for me to even stand a chance at winning. He was good enough to recognize the sparring for what it was, good practice, and let it go for a couple minutes instead of finishing me off immediately.

Tristan was always a good man, if a bit odd.

I was already breathing heavily with sweat running down my face within two minutes. Tristan never showed much in the way of emotion, but I'd swear he was getting bored.

My eyes flicked over to where Galahad stood, firing arrows at a target. Within that split second, Tristan had his sword at my neck.

"When are you going to tell him?"

His rough, deep voice threw me off for a beat. It was so odd to hear Tristan speak at all that it took several seconds to realize that he'd asked a question.

"Tell who what?" I asked with a tired grin, trying to hide my unease.

"The pup. When are you telling him?"

I glanced back over at Galahad, still firing off arrows with deadly precision.

"Tell him what?" I asked guardedly. Tristan rolled his eyes, bringing his sword back to a starting position. I took him up on the silent offer, starting our battle over again.

"You know what."

"This is the most I've heard you speak in weeks." I replied flippantly, blocking one of his blows. He raised an eyebrow at me, silently reprimanding me for changing the subject. "I'm not telling him anything."

How that man managed to put so much disappointment into a blink of his eyes was beyond me.

"I can't tell him." I swung harder. He blocked each blow with ease. He dragged his blade tauntingly along my own before bringing it back to a starting position.

"He doesn't..." A sigh turned into a harsh breath of air as his hilt connected with my stomach. I knew it could have easily been his blade cutting me through. "...feel the same." I finished breathlessly.

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure." I said as firmly as I could.

"Then you won't mind if I start paying the lad some attention."

My eyes widened, my fury at this statement blocking out the fact that I _knew_ this was unlike Tristan.

He was flat on his back on the ground with my sword pressed to his throat before either of us knew what was happening.

Galahad was at my side within seconds, eyes flicking between me and Tristan's prone form.

"Did you...did you just beat Tristan?" He laughed suddenly at the surprise still written all over both of our faces. I drew back my sword, allowing Tristan to sit up. Galahad was still laughing. "Now _that_ deserves a drink, my friend. I'm buying."

I smiled weakly at him, lowering a hand to help Tristan up.

"You're sure you can let it go, eh?" He asked wryly.

I followed Galahad off to the tavern, still reeling from what had happened.

"What was that about? He said something about if you were sure?" Galahad asked idly as we walked.

"What? Oh. Nothing. Just...a conversation we were having."

Galahad shrugged, dropping it. I shook my head slightly, looking back to the training field where Tristan appeared to be lying on his back once again, arms crossed across his chest.

I wasn't sure of anything anymore.

* * *

A/N: I _love_ writing Galahad and Gawain. Please let me know what you think and where I can improve, I always appreciate constructive criticism. 


	15. Be My Friend version Bors

A/N: WARNING!: Attempted M/M rape. If this offends you, makes you uncomfortable, or in any other way would make you hate me forever, don't read it.

* * *

**Be My Friend...**

_Bors' POV_

I always did have a soft spot in my heart for Tristan. I doubt he had a soft spot for anyone. Sometimes I doubted he even had a heart, but I suppose I knew better then to truly believe that. I'd seen him at his weakest.

He could be a callous brute and we all knew it. The women around the fort learned it quickly enough. They all seemed to get this idea in their useless heads that they could solve the puzzle that was our silent scout. Maybe it was the tattoos. Maybe it was the braids. Maybe it was his bloody hawk. Ah well, I've never claimed to understand the inner workings of the female mind. I don't think anyone could, not even the females themselves. Vanora's a prime example.

Vanora had a soft spot for the lad as well. She'd slip a plate in front of him when it was clear that he was just going to munch away on apples all night. She sent the more compromising whores his way when he came back from the woods looking exceptionally broody.

I had noticed him while we were traveling from Sarmatia when we were just young boys. Dark and silent even then, slender as Galahad. I suppose he was a pretty lad, though my axe certainly never swung that way. It became clear soon enough that one of the Roman's escorting us _did_ swing that way.

Tristan always sat apart from everyone else, it was just the way he was since the beginning. He talked even less in those days. Sometimes I wonder if he was like that even when he was safe at home.

In any case, the Roman also noticed that Tristan sat apart from the rest of us and dragged him away from the group one night. No one noticed, if they did no one said a word to me. I was going to take some of my rations over to the boy, quite the sacrifice considering my appetite, only to find that he was missing. I waited a while, figuring he was just taking a piss behind the bushes. After a couple more minutes I came to the horrifying conclusion that he must have made a run for it. I walked back to the bushes and found Tristan's raggedy clothes lying on the ground.

I followed the signs of a struggle back even farther into the brush, until I found him.

The Roman had him on his knees, a knife at his throat as he growled at the boy,

"Take me in yer mouth, yeh useless little git."

My eyes widened, and I was already whipping out my knife when the Roman howled in pain and fell away from the lad.

Tristan spit something bloody on the ground.

It took a second for me to make the connection between the flesh Tristan had spit out and the blood spurting from the Roman's groin, and I instinctively cringed once I had. In the meantime, the Roman was screaming his head off and it would only be a matter of minutes for the camp to come rushing.

By the time I had grabbed Tristan's clothes and brought them back to him, he'd already stabbed the Roman through the throat and was in the process of thoroughly mauling the body.

I shoved his clothes at him, giving him barely enough time to pull them on, and dragged him back into the bushes just as five more Romans dashed into the clearing. I brought him back to the camp in a large circle, hiding in the shadows long enough to wipe the blood off of the both of us, and then calmly sat down with the rest of the boys. They hadn't even noticed we were missing.

The Romans apparently hadn't, either. When they came back they informed us that there were Huns in the area and that we would break camp immediately.

The idiots.

Tristan and I never talked about what happened. He never said thank you, but I don't think its coincidence that more then one enemy has snuck up behind me only to find one of Tristan's arrows in their back.

Sometimes I think that's why it hurt him so much...you know, what happened with Cerdic. He'd survived the Romans with his pride intact, had gotten even with them, but not the Saxon.

I knew from that moment that someday Cerdic would find himself facing Tristan again.

Tristan could beat him if Tristan wasn't already a broken man.

Not even killing that bastard could have given Tristan his pride back, nor could he ever be free.

* * *

A/N: When I was writing this and the other Tristan fic I tried to think of who would be least likely to see this side of Tristan (i.e. Bors) and then shoved them together in compromising moments. They weren't polar opposites likes Tristan and Galahad, but they were close enough to make it interesting for me to write.


	16. Hold Me version Vanora

A/N: Look, guys! I'm still alive! Life caught up with me again and made me forget about this for a couple months. I'm a senior in high school, it gets hectic sometimes. But I managed to type a few more chapters...and thankfully we're getting near the end. Next time I decide to try writing a series I'll finish the entire thing before I try posting it.

* * *

**Hold Me, Wrap Me Up**

_Vanora's POV_

It had been yet another mission, yet another battle, yet more injuries, and I was bloody sick of it.

I was a mother of five at the time. I was not as strong then as I was later on with my children, and the bastards were taking over the small hut we stayed in. If I've learned anything over the years, its that children have far too much energy and there's simply no way to keep up at times.

The men had just come back from a mission. I barely had time to set the youngest in Bors' arms before Arthur called the men to another meeting. Apparently some missive had come from Rome and there was yet another idiotic Roman family placed in some ridiculous location that used to belong to the Woads. I was beginning to think that all the knights did all day was escort well-to-do families back and forth while I waited anxiously at the fort, cleaning after the children, trying to keep an eye on them all, and trying to keep them out from under the Romans' feet. And yet, somehow, some pompous man named Horatius took precedence over my family. This Horatius fellow was stupid enough to settle in _Britain_, of all places, a country that was hardly civilized by Rome's standards, and he was positively shocked that anyone would _dare_ attack his humble, God-serving mansion.

Bors received quite the screaming fit when I heard he was leaving the very next morning.

The only consolation I had was that Dagonet was staying behind. He'd taken a nasty tumble while fighting a Woad and had sprained his ankle. Hardly a debilitating injury, but enough to kill a man in a fight. Dagonet had kindly offered to help me with the children.

He had no idea what he was getting into.

Since I had the help of someone stronger and more intimidating then me, I had decided that it would be a wash day for the children.

Of course, this brought on a horrified look from Dagonet and endless complaints from the children.

"You're getting in the bloody tub if it kills me."

It nearly did.

By the end of the day I had been screamed at, kicked, bitten, and half-drowned. Luckily, all the fighting took the energy out of the children and they collapsed in bed, sound asleep at a decent hour for the first time in a month.

It took one look at the exhausted man leaning against the wall to remind me of the guilt I should have been feeling.

"Sorry."

Dagonet smiled wryly at me, coming up behind where I sat and giving me a backrub. "Bors has done worse."

I snorted in amusement, leaning back into his hands. That man was always so sweet to me.

When I finally convinced myself to stand I couldn't stop myself from smiling at him and giving him a hug. He wrapped me in his arms and we leaned against each other for what felt like hours.

Before I knew it, I was kissing him.

I'll admit, there was no hesitation on either of our parts.

Afterwards, when we lay in the bed Bors and I shared, he spoke quietly of his home in Sarmatia.

"You should stay with me and Bors." I told him.

"Bors..." I wondered if that was the first time it occurred to him what we did.

"Bors will know without either of us having to say a thing. He won't care."

It turned out to be true. Bors may have been as thick-skulled as an ox, but he always did seem to know everything when it came to me.

He didn't mind, but all three of us knew that if it had been anyone other then good, trustworthy Dagonet, they would have been a dead man walking.

My sixth child was a quiet baby with piercing blue eyes and a somber look to him. When Lancelot made his usual remarks about the child being his, Bors got the oddest self-satisfied smirk. It was finally proof enough for him that Lancelot had truly never slept with me.

It had always been just me and my two boys.


	17. Unfold Me version Dagonet

**Unfold Me**

_Dagonet's POV_

Vanora was kind. Vanora was loving. But Vanora was not mine.

Oh, don't misunderstand, Bors was plenty willing to share with me, and I took up the offer many times in the beginning. But each morning she left for Bors, each time we rode in from a mission she ran into Bors' arms, and I was finicky enough to notice that she served Bors his drinks first and mine second.

I wanted someone of my own. I wanted someone to love and to hold and to cherish. I didn't want to feel oddly guilty when she smiled at me in front of the other knights, in front of Bors.

The women at the fort, pleasing as they could be for a night, were always in another bed the following day. The proper women in a village, the kind who would settle down with one man, wanted nothing to do with a Sarmatian knight. It was bad enough that I was a heathen, but I could die any day, any minute, any second.

I was beginning to feel dead already.

There was once a woman a very long time ago. I never even truly met her.

We had been fighting the Woads, as we often did. It wasn't a particularly large skirmish, which may be why she was there at all. She was hardly experienced with her blades, but she managed to kill a Roman soldier that was standing near me. I killed the man I was fighting and turned toward her.

We made eye contact.

Gods, but it was foolish. I'm hardly a man who believes in love at first sight, but there it was. There she was, her skin seeming to be completely covered in blue dye and the rusty color of drying blood. There I was, sprayed in the blood of one of her fallen comrades. We stared at each other stupidly, taking one another in. She broke away first, her head tilted to listen to something I couldn't hear over the sound of my beating heart. She glanced back at me once, then ran back into the forest and disappeared.

I seemed to catch glimpses of her in every minor skirmish since then. It was infuriating knowing with complete certainty that if I could only meet this woman somewhere far away from Britain and Rome...I could love her.

And then one night, in yet another battle, covered in yet more blood, bleeding from yet more wounds, I heard a soft cry from behind me. I spun, and there she was, on her knees.

I didn't understand at first, but then she looked up at me, shock written clearly on her face as she clutched the arrow that protruded from her stomach.

I knelt beside her without a thought, never worrying that she would attack me, and caught her in my arms before she could slump to the ground. She whispered something in her sharp, guttural language.

I didn't know the Woad language at that time, it was something I learned much later, but I knew instictively what she had told me. I whispered back to her in Sarmatian.

Her body shuddered through its death throes, and I watched the life bleed out of her. It was the only time I would ever be able to hold her, the only time we had ever spoken to one another.

Much, much later in my life, I learned the Woad language. It came as no surprise to me that she had whispered 'I love you' to me in her dying breath. I knew when she had first whispered it. From the brief, pained smile on her face, she had known what my Sarmatian words had been as well.

* * *

A/N: I know. Its horrendously sappy and romantic. I can't help it...Dagonet screams to be loved...kind of like how Tristan screams that I should make a lot of angst for him.


	18. I Am Small and Needy version Lucan

A/N: This is a _masterpiece!_ Haha, just kidding. In any case, I like it a lot better then my other Lucan chapter.

* * *

**I Am Small and Needy**

_Lucan's POV_

The giant's name was Dagonet. He told me he'd protect me no matter what.

He lifted me and Guinevere into a wagon and let me curl up beside him. My eyes were closed within seconds.

I had nightmares of cackling witches that became priests, of clouds and fire, of hunger and cold, of a giant who slew dragons and kept little boys safe in the palm of his hand.

Sometimes I heard people talking somewhere far off. I heard the giant's voice saying I was burning. I wondered if that meant my mother had felt this way when she became the cloud. I thought it was worth it if I would become untouchable like a cloud. The only person tall enough to reach clouds was Dagonet.

I wondered if that meant he could reach my mother.

Dagonet was a very tall man. Maybe he could reach heaven.

Becoming a cloud was very painful.

When I finally woke up, I was in Dagonet's arms. He told me about his son, a little boy named Six. I thought that was a better name then plain old Lucan. He told me that he knew Six and I would get along. I was glad. Maybe if I got along well enough with Six, Dagonet would be my father, too.

I told Dagonet about my mother. He would've liked her. He asked if I had a father. I told him that mother had always said that I had no father, that the Goddess had blessed her with me, but the other villagers said that I looked like a man who had once traveled through the village. He had disappeared before I was born. A guard once told me that he was locked away like I had been.

Dagonet carried me around on his shoulders so I could get fresh air and meet his friends. They were also very tall, but not as tall as him. They rode big horses and told jokes I couldn't understand.

One of his friends, Tristan, let me ride on his horse with him.

I asked Tristan if he had any children. He introduced me to his big hawk and gave me a piece of meat so I could feed her. He said she was the only family he had.

I told him that I would be his family if he wanted. He got an odd look on his face and nodded slowly.

That night when I curled up with Dagonet, he told me that I could be his son if I wanted.

When I went to sleep I dreamt of one huge family. Bors was there with a million children that all looked like him, and there was a pretty woman with red hair who hugged me. Dagonet was sitting at a big, round table and pulled me onto his lap. Tristan was leaning against the wall in the corner, his hawk perched on his arm, and a smile on his face. The rest of the knights were all around, talking and laughing and smiling at me. My mother sat next to Dagonet and hugged me and told me how glad she was that I found a family.

Being a cloud wasn't so bad.


	19. Warm Me Up version Guinevere

A/N: What is this?! Regular posting?! What _is_ the world coming to?

* * *

**Warm Me Up**

_Guinevere's POV_

I was, for lack of a better word, disheartened.

I had heard tales of you for as long as I could remember. You were told to be handsome, brave, dashing...this amazing hero that was so much more then the average human. I was the daughter of Merlin, a man wise enough to realize that he would have a use for you one day. I was raised on stories and myths so that I would love you.

When you rescued me I was simply blown away. You _were_ amazing and brave. But the longer I looked at you, the more I realized that your handsome face was creased with worry lines, your eyes were filled with a hurt far deeper then I could imagine, and you were not as strong as I wanted you to be.

Yes, I wanted some brave, strong man to sweep me off my feet. It was ridiculous nonsense. I was a warrior and there I was, having the same daydreams as some rich Roman woman.

I realized it after Dagonet's funeral, as I stood beside you and argued with you. _Gently_ argued with you. It was infuriating to watch you speak of Pelagius. Speak for yourself, you foolish man. Come up with your own words, your own thoughts for once in your life.

I was going to kiss you, I knew you expected it, but as I cupped your face in my hands I realized that I would never love you.

And so I walked calmly away from you, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the dead. The confusion that came with a whole village trying to move into your fort gave me the opportunity to slip out of the gates.

I ran for the forest.

Merlin was patiently waiting for me.

"I can't stand this!" I fell to my knees beside him. "I can't stand the fort and the people in there, all of these useless talks where no one communicates at all! I can't stay there any longer, father."

"You must. This is your duty, to bind our people together, my daughter. This goes beyond you, it goes beyond me. Its for the good of all."

He continued talking but I stopped listening. I was just another pawn in his political game. I was just another tool. When he asked me if I understood, I nodded. Oh yes, I understood perfectly.

He told me to hurry back to the fort, to reach it before the Saxons and to "do what I must". We both knew what that meant. I got to my feet and hurried back to the fort, the obedient daughter as always.

I couldn't run in that damn Roman dress, it got caught on all types of branches, and it occurred to me that this was exactly how it would always be. I would be caught up in fineries, clawing at the bars of my self-induced cage, trying to escape back to the woods.

Slipping into the fort was just as easy as sneaking out.

No one stopped me on my way up to your quarters. I didn't realize until I was outside your door that I had tears streaming down my face. I wiped them away, took a deep breath, and opened your door.

You sat up in your bed.

"What tomorrow brings, we cannot know."

I felt so cold as we kissed, as we touched. You seemed to be made of fire and passion and I could only hope my acting was enough to fool you.

I felt nothing.

I was glad when we were interrupted and you went to the wall.

When you said goodbye to your knights, I was the first to receive Lancelot's accusing glare. I tried to look indifferent, tried so hard, but it was taking everything in me to keep from throwing myself off the wall.

The following day, when I sat with the other Woads and painted myself in our war paint, I realized that an opportunity had fallen into my lap.

I would die that day. I had to die that day. I could not find it in me to disobey my father, and if I survived I would surely be caught into marriage with you.

And so I threw myself into battle with every Saxon I could find. I let myself take injury. I sought out the son of Cerdic, wishing to all the Gods that he would be able to kill me.

But I suppose that was not what was meant to be.

Gods be damned, I would have killed Lancelot myself if he weren't busy with Cynric. How dare he steal my suicide from me?

On our wedding day, as we drank from the sacred cup and Merlin announced you king, I could only think of your words to me:

"There is no worse death than the end of hope."

I was dead already.

* * *

A/N: I really do like reading stories where Guinevere and Arthur get their happy endings. I just don't like writing them! My impression from the movie was that she was just playing everyone off each other, which I honestly don't blame her for. Living in a war-torn land and watching your people die can't be all that fun. 


	20. And Breathe Me version Arthur

A/N: And now the other point of view...I wrote this a while after the last chapter and it wasn't until a couple paragraphs in that I realized how depressing this was to see how hopeful he was. ...I actually kind of like it more for that. Not to mention the use of Lancelot in this chapter..

* * *

**And Breathe Me**

_Arthur's POV_

She was amazing. Simply amazing.

Her sharp gasps as I set her fingers, the way she clutched me with her uninjured hand, the way she refused to scream, though she obviously wanted to.

She was so much stronger than the women I was used to. Fine Roman ladies, Vanora (rough around the edges, but still so frail with Bors), common prostitutes. None were as amazing as her.

When she told me that the monks tortured her, I felt a murderous anger swell up in me. I had never felt so protective of anyone other then my knights before.

She had a horrible tendency to leave me feeling frustrated, though. She argued against all I stood for, but the passion that lit up her eyes as she did so left me feeling captivated.

Oddly enough, fighting with her reminded me of my fights with Lancelot. Polar opposites, fighting one another's religions and philosophies. I wanted to share this amusing revelation with Lancelot himself, but he gave me a hurt look and rode off. He was such a testy man, and yet somehow that had drawn us together as friends.

Friends...

Being friends with Lancelot was harder in our earlier days. Ironically enough, we fought less back then. It was just an odd tension between us.

An odd tension that became odd, horrifying dreams.

Oh, if only Lancelot and I could have switched places. To be a Pagan, a religion with few rules when it came to loving another...when it came to loving someone. And he, with his unaffected friendship, would have fit so much better into the role of an honest Christian.

It was such a relief when I met Guinevere. It was practically like having another Lancelot, only, well, female. Blessedly female. The same attraction, the same underlying friendship, and yet loving her wouldn't break rules. Well...it broke rules, but less severe ones in any case. Such a relief to find someone enough like him...

It was an embarrassing problem.

And then came Dagonet's funeral and our conversation. I quoted Pelagius and it pleased me to see that she seemed to be contemplating those words. I had quoted Pelagius to Lancelot so often that it no longer had an effect.

When she came to me that night in my chamber and offered herself to me...my God, the relief I felt at feeling an attraction for her. And yet, even as I kissed her I remembered one night when Lancelot came into my chambers. Oh, we did nothing of the sort, Lancelot certainly never felt that way and I would _never_...

In any case, he'd come into my room to talk, he said. And so we did, we often found many things to talk (more like argue) about. And yet, that night I'd found myself fantasizing, imagining.

These same thoughts came to mind as I caressed sweet Guinevere. Later, when I was hurrying to the wall, I couldn't help but feel a certain amount of dread when I realized that I had been imagining Lancelot in her place.

Perhaps it was just as well that my dear knights were leaving the following day. It would rid me of temptation and sin. But as I had my last argument with Lancelot, I felt another surge of dread at the thought of him ever leaving me. I'd spend an eternity on my knees praying to God for forgiveness if it meant I could simply have him as a friend.


	21. Be My Friend version Lancelot

**Be My Friend**

_Lancelot's POV_

I'm dying.

I'm lying on a battlefield of my choosing and I'm _dying_.

I think I'm in denial. As much as I went on about it, as much as I spoke of finding my own damned battle... well, now its actually happening.

Part of me wants to scream that I'm not ready, but I suppose there's no better time. I rescued the damsel in distress (Arthur would be so proud), the enemy is slain...and there's really nothing left to do anymore.

I can feel the life pouring out of me as I fall to the ground.

Arthur...

My fingers twitch slightly, I have no control over them.

Everything is starting to go black and a million "what if's" run through my head.

What if we'd been stationed somewhere else? Africa could have been nice. A bit warm, but no rain...a different commander...

What if I'd just _told_ him?

I long for him to come to my side. It would be so much easier to die if I could just say goodbye to him, tell him that I saved Guinevere for him, and finally tell him that I love him.

It'd be easier to say it now that I'm not long for this world.

I wonder idly if I'll come back as a good war horse. A nice black stallion...

I'm willing him to come to me, but the battling crowd shifts just enough for me to catch a last glance of him running towards Cerdic.

"Arthur..."

---

I'm cold and wet and completely confused.

My eyes pop open and I manage a very unmanly flailing of limbs. A soft whicker comes from beside me, and a horse nudges me gently until I'm on four wobbly feet.

A horse. A horse?!

After several seconds of cunning deductions and other deep thoughts, I come to the conclusion that I am a horse. A pleased noise comes out of me that almost sounds like a neigh. I glance down at myself and frown...or at least I would frown if I had proper lips.

I'm white. I guess being born an intimidating black was out of the question. I give a shrug (which topples me over once again). Arthur always did like white stallions. I'm not sure I'm all too fond of the idea of carrying his lazy arse around (goodness, but being reborn does put one in good spirits), but I suppose I can sacrifice a little dignity for our friendship. Of course I'll give him hell every minute. I'd hate for him to forget his first knight.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, guys. But as much as I like to bend roles in movies and introduce weird love triangles, I told myself at the beginning that I wouldn't save any lives. I mean, really. I've built up so much angst, it'd be a shame if I just let everyone live at this point. Heads had to roll! (Haha, I always wanted to say that.)**  
**


	22. Hold Me, Wrap Me Up version Dagonet

**Hold Me, Wrap Me Up**

_Dagonet's POV_

I hope that one day my boys will understand why I've done what I have done.

Little Lucan, already alone in the world once again. Six...I am still unsure if he even knows that I am his father. He is a smart lad. He will know soon enough. Bors...

Of them all, Bors will take the longest to comprehend my actions. He will yell at the heavens, at Arthur, at the Saxons, and undoubtedly get horrendously drunk. This will be one of the few occasions where Vanora will not yell at him for it.

I feel the most guilt over Lucan. He could have been my son. I would have taken him in. He's a brave boy, strong-willed...

I hope Bors thinks to take him in. He and Six would get along so well, my two somber-eyed boys.

Its very cold.

I barely register that I'm being dragged across the ice. There is a twinge of guilt as I can hear Bors' distant yells. He sounds so far away...

I wish I could gather my three boys together and just look at them one last time. Lucan, still scarred outside and in. Six, so serious and watchful...Tristan will teach him what he needs to know. Bors, my full-grown, alcoholic, menace to society brother.

I wish I could tell them that I did it all for them three.

I did it so they could live on.

Arthur might say that one sometimes has to die for the good of many.

The men will brood. Its inevitable and would bring a smile to my face if I could feel my face at all anymore.

Bors' screams are fading away completely now and I can finally open my eyes.

My beautiful Woad woman is crouching beside me with a small smile on her face. We have much catching up to do.

* * *

A/N: You have no idea how hard it was to keep from saving everyone's life. I didn't really realize until I was writing my Death Chapters (catchy name, huh?) that only three knights survived. I'm not sure how much I like this chapter. I really liked Dagonet and the first time I watched the movie I cried when he died...but I just couldn't make this as sad as I wanted to. I might rewrite it someday. 


	23. Unfold Me version Tristan

A/N: My last Death Chapter. This one was the saddest for me to write, mostly because of my previous Tristan chapters. I really wanted to give him a happy ending after that.

* * *

**Unfold Me**

_Tristan's POV_

To die is such an interesting thing.

Its an interesting thing, to observe its process while its occurring in your own body rather then just another blood-splattered face in your way.

Its painful, this dying. Painful in so many ways.

He's defeated me. Again. I can hardly bear it, and my only solace is that I know it will be over soon.

It will all be over soon.

I nearly pull out my dagger, longing to just throw it with deadly accuracy one last time. I come so close to just ending his life without all the pomp and circumstance. I don't need honor. I'll die on this battlefield no matter whose blade deals the final blow.

But what would my life be worth if it weren't for what little honor I have left? Its only a scrap, but I cling to it with all the tenacity my blood ties have instilled in me. My ancestors are standing beside me, helping me to keep my grip on my blade even though my hands are slippery with my own blood.

It will all be over soon.

Even as I fall to my back on the blood-drenched ground, my hawk flies above, another blood tie waiting to carry my spirit along.

Death has not come swiftly enough.

* * *

A/N: One of these days I'm going to have to write a sappy romance for Tristan just to make up for everything I did to him in this fic. 


	24. I Am Small and Needy version Arthur

**I Am Small And Needy**

_Arthur's POV_

The days of fighting on Badon Hill are long over. Gawain and Galahad left with respectful nods and words of support.

I saw them later on in the tavern with Bors, drinking toasts and laughing till tears streamed down their faces as Bors regaled them with stories. The kind of stories that caused laughter, not broody silences.

I would have preferred to take part in that goodbye rather then the solemn one they had given me. After all these years, after all the blood spilled, I was still their commander. Never their friend.

I missed Lancelot.

Bors never left. He muttered about how he'd leave when he was ready. We both knew he'd leave whenever Vanora was ready.

My days became filled with politics as Merlin gathered more tribes together under my rule.

I had never really wanted to be a king.

Guinevere and I sat for long hours in meetings. It took the willpower of fifteen years of hard fighting against the very men I was now trying to unite to keep from shifting in my seat as my legs fell asleep.

At night she'd climb into bed and turn with her back to me and I would leave the room and wander along the wall under the pretense of checking on the guard stations.

I remembered standing in those very guard stations myself when I was just a commander of a group of Sarmatian boys, my first knight grumbling and complaining beside me.

I missed Lancelot.

I'd walk past the barracks they had once stayed in. The rooms had long since filled with soldiers, some Roman deserters, but mostly British. Men who killed the knights that once occupied those very rooms. I sometimes wanted to enter the one Lancelot and Bedivere had once shared. The knights would all gather in their room from time to time and drink themselves into stupors. That is, until they convinced the tavern owner to serve them. I wondered if the men who stayed there now still used the hole that was dug underneath Lancelot's bed to hide their alcohol.

I'd walk past the training field. It had once been divided, a section for the Sarmatians, a section for the Romans. They never interacted. They were so divided that a strip of grass grew between the two spots, the separate areas long since trampled down from practice but no one willing to cross the line between. I was the only one who had.

I'd notice the large tree that the men would rest under on summer days. Lancelot and I had once collapsed there after a long bout of training, gasping and exhausted. It was the first time he had told me about Sarmatia. When he was done talking there was a long pause, and then he had stood up, patting my still prone figure on the chest. A bolt of heat had shot through me as he grinned at me.

"You and I will go there together someday." He'd told me.

"Sarmatia?"

"Yes. And then I'll visit your precious Rome. But don't expect me to enjoy it."

I missed Lancelot.

* * *

A/N: ...I don't know if anyone caught onto my hints of Arthur loving Lancelot in previous chapters. I can't help it. Awkward love triangles make things interesting. Anyway, this was actually one of my favorite chapters to write. I loved the reminiscing, and I really liked the idea of Arthur being forced into being a king. ...Plus the irony of Woads living in the knights' barracks was way too awkward to pass up. 


	25. Warm Me Up version Gawain

**Warm Me Up**

_Gawain's POV_

I was an _idiot_.

What was I thinking? Me and Galahad, on our own, traveling back to Sarmatia.

Me and Galahad.

On our own.

Stupid.

He was all...giddy. Giddy and grinning, drunk on life. And when that man's drunk he gets incredibly affectionate.

Hugs. Every time I turned around he was swinging an arm around my shoulders and _squeezing_ and talking about finally going home.

Every time we found a nice pond or lake to bathe in he was tackling me into the water. _Tackling me._

If there are gods, they are an unmerciful lot. I am only human. I bleed red like the most of men. And may the gods help me, but I was going to explode in a very undignified and premature manner if that man touched me again.

I finally snapped one night as we were sitting around the fire, our freshly caught dinner eaten long ago. Galahad was staring into the fire, suddenly somber compared to his previous attitude.

"We're almost there." My head popped up at his sudden words, prompting him to continue. "We're almost home."

"Home is where the heart is." I muttered, more trying to make conversation then convey any particular message. Galahad looked like he was taking that deeply into consideration.

"So." He paused again. I clenched my teeth. I was far too on edge in all sorts of ways to put up with his slow, careful phrases. He sighed, and scratched the back of his neck. My fingers curled into fists. "So I suppose you'll find your Sarmatian wife, then."

I blinked. A Sarmatian wife? Well, I supposed, Galahad could be the wife if he truly wanted. The kilt was certainly fitting, but...oh. A wife. That's what he meant.

"I suppose." I returned awkwardly.

"Hm." He nodded to himself. I barely suppressed a groan of sheer frustration. The first thing I was going to do when we reached civilization was take the nearest person...woman and-

"We'll never really see each other again, will we?" It was more a statement then a question. We both knew it was true. We had never seen each other before being taken for our service.

"Well you could always come live with my tribe." I offered with a poor attempt at a grin.

"Mm. I don't think I could stand seeing you with a wife."

I blinked. Had he just said what I thought he said? He looked up suddenly, a look of horror crossing his face.

"What I mean is..." He trailed off. It must've been the look on my face. The look of a man who couldn't care less about some pretty Sarmatian woman. The look of a man who had the worst case of blue balls in the history of mankind.

The next bit is still a blur. I think I may have tackled him because he ended up on his back, I ended up straddling him, and we were firmly connected at the lips.

We were near home, I rationalized to myself. If this was not at all what he had been hinting at then I could quite easily escape to my tribe and never see the man again. Though that would be a shame.

Turns out that he had been hinting at just this thing.

Afterwards we sprawled out on the grass, several limbs still tangled.

Galahad started laughing.

"What's so damn funny?" I mumbled, face-first in the dirt.

"Took me ten years to say something stupid like that."

"I'm rather surprised myself. You've said a good deal of other stupid things that didn't result in such activities." He smacked me. "Took me eleven years to tackle you off a log and nearly throw us both in the fire, if it makes you feel any better."

* * *

A/N: ...Heh.

I got the idea when I wrote my first Gawain and Galahad chapters that I would REALLY have to end this story with them finally getting together to even out all that angst.


	26. And Breathe Me version Galahad

**And Breathe Me**

_Galahad's POV_

I was happy. Really, truly, insanely happy.

I couldn't remember the last time I was that happy.

We rode across plains without a single Woad-infested tree in sight, went weeks without rain, spent long nights under open night skies.

The mornings were the best.

Waking up with Gawain sprawled in a heavy, hairy mess on top of me breathing morning breath in my face was the best thing to ever happen to me.

I spent the day happy. I went to bed happy. I woke up happy.

It made the last fifteen years worth every second to have him beside me. My smiles felt real again.

The entire world seemed real again. It was all just a bad dream after all.

And then we rode past the first village.

It wasn't one of our tribes, but they welcomed us in once they recognized us as knights returning home. They asked about their sons who had rode off fifteen years ago with us. None of their sons had survived. Mothers wept. Fathers stared stoically into the skies. Families were torn apart as we rode through.

We declined to stay at their village for the night. We pretended to be eager to return home, but I felt a seed of doubt taking root inside me.

Gawain apparently felt the same.

"They won't accept us, you know." He finally mentioned as we saddled up the following morning. "Our own tribes won't accept...this."

I couldn't look at him. Was he suggesting that after all those years of longing, after roughly a week of complete bliss beyond that which I had ever imagined, we just split ways and pretend none of it had happened?

"I don't know what to do." He admitted quietly.

I glanced over at him and felt the doubts disappear. There was love in his eyes. As much as that love scared me, I could never abandon it and he would never let go of it, I knew him well enough to see that.

We watched each other for a long time, thinking things out.

"We could..." I started, unable to finish.

"Return." He finished for me. "We could return to Arthur."

We visited our old tribes, spending days with each and saying goodbyes that were meant to be final this time.

Our families could not understand this devotion to Arthur. He was a Roman. Roman's did not inspire courage or loyalty.

This one did, we told them.

So much went unspoken.

He inspired love, as well. He would accept us where our own families would not.

And so we returned.

Arthur had dark rings under his eyes, a hollowness in him that could not be filled, but he was uniting the British people like never before.

He saw us ride in together and simply smiled and nodded his acceptance. We would always have a place with this Roman.

Vanora caught sight of us before Bors and ran over, whooping like a banshee as she wrapped us up in her arms, pressing us against her once-again pregnant belly.

Bors had aged somewhat. He still spent each night in the tavern, but this time he was covered in his own children, not a pitcher of ale in sight, keeping a loving eye on his woman as she served new British customers.

He saw us together and said nothing about the way we sat close together.

"I have a story for you." He said gruffly, plucking up Six and placing him on his knee. Lucan wandered over and climbed on my lap.

He told us stories about the family we had spent the last fifteen years with. Stories that we had never known, stories that he had been watching from the very start.

* * *

A/N: I can't believe this story is over. Its basically the first thing I've ever written that I actually _finished_.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed or favorited this story! That's really what helped me push through the more annoying chapters.

For any fans of this one, I have another songfic in the making that's going to be just Gawain/Galahad and completely unrelated to this one.


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